


Can You Hear the People Sing?

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, F/M, Gen, Years of the Trees, tone deaf character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: It's not easy being imperfect in paradise.





	Can You Hear the People Sing?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Les Mis. I do not own Tolkien's work.
> 
> A couple of notes: I am not tone deaf, and my knowledge of the subject consists of some quick research. It’s entirely possible I got some things wrong in this fic. It’s also important to note that as I wrote this, it occurred to me that in a world literally brought into being by music where evil was introduced by discord in that music, being tone deaf might be made into a much bigger deal than it is in our culture. Consequently, some characters direct a lot of negativity towards her and her disability in this fic and make some inaccurate assumptions about just what the problem is.

Sometimes Aranel wished she’d been born with a horrible facial deformity. If she’d been born like that, everyone would have sorted out their feelings about it by the time she was old enough to care, and every time she met someone new, everything would be in the open right away. There would be no hopeful, lingering days and months where she tried to hide it before the rumors inevitably hit them.

But she looked perfectly normal. Better than normal even, the sort of looks that meant she’d overheard more than one person say, “Such a shame that such a pretty girl should … Well, you know.”

The worst times were when the other person didn’t know, and she got to hear the whole thing poured out all over again.

 

The first hint that something was wrong was when her older sister tried to teach her children’s songs. She’d copied the hand motions enthusiastically and repeated back the words. The childish stumbling over some of those words wasn’t the problem. 

Her complete failure to be anything approaching in tune was.

Not much of a problem. Not yet. She was still such a small child, after all, and even among elves, not everyone sang all that well, comparatively. 

But the older she got, the more obvious it was. Not only could she not sing well, she couldn’t hear where she was going wrong. Or, in many cases, what the big fuss was over a piece of music in the first place.

The lyrics were pretty, but the rest … Well, there was no accounting for taste, she supposed, but apparently that wasn’t the problem.

She was.

 

Her parents dragged her to healer after healer, but there was nothing anything of them could do.

“There’s nothing wrong with her ears,” the last one said. “If there was, perhaps I could do more. The problem lies either in the mind or - “ He cut himself off.

Her mother’s brow wrinkled. “Or where?”

Her father had already caught on. “Or her fëa,” he said grimly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother snapped and turned to the healer for confirmation.

The healer looked away.

 

If Aranel was at first confused about what her fëa had to do with anything, the other children were happy to tell her, just as their parents were happy to whisper when they thought Aranel couldn’t hear. 

Eru Iluvatar had sung three great themes, and Melkor had sewn discord by disrupting them. Music had sung the universe into existence; by music their people still shaped the world. 

But she couldn’t hear the music. When she sang, all she ever produced was an inharmonious discord.

Any elf _could_ sing disunity, but only she seemed destined to it.

 

It would be one thing if she was fully deaf. There were a few elves like that, who had suffered injury across the great sea before they came and had found no healing even here. To lose a sense entirely was unfortunate, but it was no real reflection on your character.

But to be able to hear everything else - gossip and taunts and every cruel name - to be able to say anything else - anything but the greatest and holiest of sounds -

That was a deeper flaw. Her parents never said it, but she could see it in their faces. Besides, what need was there for them to say it when everyone else already had?

Everyone but her sister. Thiriel said that it wasn’t her fault. Thiriel said that it was pretty obviously not _Aranel’s_ character that was being shown to be flawed here. Thiriel said she would box the ears of the next person who said anything so hard that they wouldn’t be hearing anything but ringing for weeks.

Thiriel said she was moving to Tirion now that she was through apprenticing to be a seamstress, and did Aranel want to come with her?

In Tirion, no one would know. In Tirion, maybe she could hide it. In Tirion -

No one had wanted to let Aranel apprentice under them. She declared herself Thiriel’s assistant and went.

 

Thiriel needed a few more years of experience before she could take on an official apprentice, but Aranel learned under her anyway. Sewing was purely visual. Sewing let her make something beautiful. 

Sewing was much better than singing in her firm opinion. She liked all of it - plotting out a project, making up a set of clothes, embroidering designs - but her favorite part was working on a project with her sister, no words between them needed, as they made something beautiful together, no discord in sight.

 

Making clothes for one of Prince Macalaure’s performances at a festival was a great honor. Thiriel was thrilled.

For her sister’s sake, Aranel tried to be.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like the prince. He was perfectly courteous and charming every time he came in, from the initial order to the final fitting.

It was just that in quiet moments he liked to hum or sing a snatch of a song to himself, and Thiriel and their new shop assistant always complimented him afterward and she … Well, it was probably better that she keep her mouth shut because she lied terribly, and the best she could honestly say was that it was nice, probably.

Everyone said he was the greatest singer of the Noldor and possibly the greatest elvish singer in Aman. She had no idea if that was objectively true or because he was a prince, though judging by some of the more gushing things the new assistant had said, he was at least very good.

Or maybe the gushing was just because he was handsome.

Because he was. Handsome, that is. He was definitely that.

Particularly when he smiled. 

So she kept her mouth shut about his singing, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was perfectly happy to talk about her work instead, or, when she prompted him, the more visual aspects of his performance.

She made the mistake of telling him that it sounded wonderful, and that she was sure his performance would go very well. Surely, she had thought, she couldn’t go wrong with that.

Except she did, because he then promptly invited to her and her sister to some special box that was set aside as thanks for all the work they’d done, and he smiled when he said he couldn’t wait to see what she thought after the performance.

Her smile was frozen as she agreed.

 

She got through it. Somehow. Mainly by giving genuine compliments on the way he’d sung the flowered vines twined around the columns on the stage through the stages of life and then by giving paraphrased compliments she’d overheard other people saying in the interlude between the performance and him managing to make his way up to the box.

Unfortunately, that started a pattern. He’d liked their work, apparently, so he started coming to them for all his performances and then, in addition to their payment, getting them seats.

It wasn’t the work that was the problem. It wasn’t even Macalaure that was the real problem. He was sweet and funny and generous and never at all concerned with their rare mistakes. And his smile …

Well, if his music was half as good as his smile, she could see why everyone liked it so much.

It was just after the performances. He wanted her opinion. Every time. Specifically hers, not just Thiriel’s. 

If he had just been fishing for compliments, it would have been one thing. A slightly vain thing, admittedly, but something she could bluff her way through.

But he always pressed her for her genuine opinion. Did she like this piece better or that one? Was there too much emotional whiplash between the two songs he’d put back to back? Next time he performed the new song he’d written, should he try it like this instead?

It was flattering that he cared for her opinion. She just didn’t think he wanted to hear the truth of what it all sounded like to her.

So she focused on the lyrics and the visuals when she could, relied on Thiriel’s hasty whispers when she couldn’t, and on the occasions when Thiriel wasn’t there and she was on her own, bluffed like crazy for the rest.

 

It might have worked indefinitely if three of his brothers hadn’t returned to the city, and he hadn’t given her a seat in the same box as those brothers at one of the performances. 

He introduced her to them before the show, giving them a very significant warning look as he did so. She wasn’t entirely sure what that was for, though given the stories she’d heard him tell about what they’d gotten up to as children, she might could guess.

“Aranel,” Curufinwe said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“In a letter perhaps?” One half of the Ambarussa asked dryly.

“Or ten?” The other suggested brightly. 

Maglor glared. Aranel blinked.

Curufinwe waved this away. “Aside from there. With the slight familiarity of the face … I think I might have met your parents on the return journey. You aren’t Engol’s daughter by any chance, are you?”

Aranel felt the blood drain from her face. She could lie, she thought frantically, except - 

Except Macalaure already knew full well that she was. She’d introduced herself properly the first time he’d walked into the shop.

“We’re not … often in touch,” she said. He might not know. He might really only have noticed the resemblance. He might -

“Curufinwe,” Maglor warned.

He had the grace to look apologetic. “Family troubles are difficult. You have my sympathies. Still, it speaks well of your fondness for my brother that you keep coming to these anyway.”

_“Curufinwe.”_

One of the twins, curse them, asked, “What makes you say that?”

Curufinwe raised an eyebrow. “Well, I can’t imagine you see much other appeal in a musical performance,” he directed towards her. “Seeing as you can’t - “

In the split second she had left, Aranel pictured the look on Macalaure’s face when he learned how she’d deceived him. What would the greatest singer of the Noldor think when he learned she was incapable of grasping his music at all? 

She didn’t wait for Curufinwe to finish. She interrupted, so that at least she could be the one to spit out the hateful words. “Properly hear a single note due to some flaw in my fëa, yes. Excuse me.”

With all the dignity she could manage, she turned and marched out. 

As soon as she was out of the box, she broke into a dead run. 

Someone called after her.

She was not about to slow down.

 

It had been a night performance, so she was confident the shop would hold only her late working sister when she reached it. She slammed the door shut behind her and slid down to the ground as soon as she reached the shop. “I think I just lost us the prince’s custom.”

Thiriel was beside her side in an instant. “What happened? Did he try something?”

Try something? For a moment startled out of her misery, she could only blink up at her sister before shaking her head dismissively. “No, of course not, he - Well, I interrupted one of the other princes.”

“Given some of the stories he’s shared, I very much doubt he cares,” Thiriel said slowly.

The dreadful truth finally came out. “He knows,” she blurted out. “That I’m marred.”

Thiriel wrapped an arm tightly around her. “You are not marred,” she said firmly. “So what if you can’t sing? I can’t dance. Mother couldn’t sew. Father couldn’t tell a joke to save his life. We all have things we can’t do, and yours is no more important than any other.”

“But it’s _music.”_

“I don’t care,” Thiriel said. “And if Prince Macalaure is worth two thimbles, he won’t either.”

Aranel resisted the urge to remind her that by that estimation, there were very few people worth two thimbles in their lives.

 

The shop had barely opened the next morning when Macalaure walked in. Aranel resisted the urge to run to the backroom and instead just gripped the table she was sitting behind for support.

He looked uncertain. “About last night,” he began. 

“If it’s going to be a problem, I can assure you that Thiriel - “

“It’s not a problem,” he said immediately before smiling ruefully. “Well, it is a problem, but mainly because my entire courtship strategy revolved around impressing you with my music, and I’m still not quite sure what I have left to impress you with now that that’s out, but that speaks to my deficiencies, not yours.”

“Courtship?” she said blankly.

He saw the look on her face and groaned. “Yes,” he said. “And apparently without the music my strategy’s been even more lacking than I thought if that comes as a surprise to you. I’m sorry. I’d thought to impress you, and apparently I’ve just been proving myself an oblivious idiot instead.”

“The shows were impressive,” she protested. “You always - there’s always a visual element. I like that. And your lyrics are beautiful.”

He perked up. “Really?”

Her brain started working again. “But - courtship?” If she hadn’t already been sitting down, she would have had to then. “You can’t - I’m … marred.”

His face softened. “They say that about my father too, you know. Because of - “ He looked away.

His grandmother. All of Tirion knew, and no one dared speak of it except in whispers. 

“Curufinwe would tell you he isn’t, but I say - So what if he is marred? So what if that makes us marred right along with him? So what if you are? The whole of Arda’s marred they say, so that means us right along with it. We get along as best we can anyway.” 

_As best we can anyway._ She liked that.

“So,” he said hesitantly. “If you’ll allow me to try again. My mother is displaying several new sculptures soon. Would you like to see them?”

“I would,” she said, smiling brightly as an almost painful relief mixing with joy. “I’d still like to come watch you perform though. I really did like them except for having to hide what I could hear.”

His answering smile was more beautiful than ever. “It would be my pleasure.”


End file.
